by Ken Lindsey
"How you doin?" asked David.
"I have no idea. My ribs hurt, but not too bad. Whatever they've got running in that I.V. is nice and warm."
"I think it's Morphine. You got pretty torn up, Gavin."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"Okay. How about good news? The girl's doing well. She's in another room. Her mom hasn't left the hospital since you two got here."
I closed my eyes. She was alright. Maybe I wasn't as useless as Yvette thought after all. "What are they gonna do about her legs?"
"The doc said she'll be like new after a couple of surgeries and a lot of physical therapy."
"Good. Any chance I can smoke in here?"
David laughed.
"What about Williamson?" I asked finally.
"Dead. She stabbed him half a dozen times and he bled out in minutes."
"Good." The door to my room opened and Rachel walked in, legs and all.
"You're awake," she smiled as she approached the hospital bed. "You look good."
"Liar," I laughed. "It's good to see you."
"You too." She leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Jennifer wanted me to thank you. She would come visit, but she's stuck in her own bed still."
"Tell her I'm glad she's okay. How are you?"
David got up from his seat next to the bed, "I'm gonna go get coffee. I'll be back to check in on you in a little while, Gavin."
After he closed the door I turned my attention back to Rachel. She looked away as the tears started building up. "I can't believe this happened. I can't believe that my little girl had to..." She snuffled and plucked a tissue from the box next to my bed. Even through the tears and the exhaustion, she was gorgeous. "It's a lot, you know?"
"Yeah."
"I'm taking her back East. I need to be closer to my family. Jennifer says she wants to go, doesn't want to be in a place where everyone has heard about this. She's afraid people will treat her differently."
Shit. I was hoping she'd be around long enough to divorce me at least. Oh well. "She's right, they probably would."
She straightened up and wiped the last stray tear from her cheek. "There's a good physical therapist, who my dad knows. Jennifer's going to do most of her work there."
I thought of my balcony, and the whiskey, and the light blue panties. "I'm sure it'll be better for both of you to have family around to help you get through it all."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"Yeah."
"Thank you, Gavin." She leaned in again and hugged me, and then handed me an envelope. "I'll never be able to repay you for what you did."
I stuttered, trying to find a response, but before I could say a word she was out the door. I fumbled with the envelope for a second before I got it opened.
I pulled out a photo of Jennifer and Rachel, from before, standing in front of a car. On the back of the photo, "Jenny's first car!" had been scribbled in blue ink. It was a nice picture; they were both smiling like loonies. I hoped they would be able to smile like that again soon.
Behind the picture were five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Enough for a few good nights at the bar, to help me forget.
The End
---PART TWO---
Prologue:
A breath caught in his throat as he began to wake up. He slouched against the cupboard on his kitchen floor with a pool of blood growing around him, already soaking his shirt and pants. The wound hurt more than anything he had ever imagined, and his thoughts wandered. He thought about all the movies he had seen where someone got stabbed in the chest. None of them, not even the most graphic images or high-pitched screams, had readied him for the real thing.
Somewhere near the edge of his consciousness Harry Richman sang Puttin' on the Ritz from his very expensive sound system. He hoped the record didn’t get scratched. He spent several months of the previous year hunting for the collector's item, original vinyl and in mint condition. For a moment, he thought how strange it was to worry about something as trivial as a record during his final moments.
Then, the music faded away as the sound of one of his lungs percolating caught his attention. The sound both terrified and fascinated him. He listened closely to each breath, hearing his own death rattle, and knowing he could do nothing to fix it.
The floor still smelled of bleach, from the last time his cleaning lady had been there. Seeing the blood spreading in a pool around him, he thought of calling her and letting her know that she would need extra bleach when she came next. Hopefully, the blood wouldn't stain the tiles, they had cost twice as much as he budgeted for them, but they were gorgeous.
With half-opened eyes, he watched Brittany walk into the room and set something on his lap. He didn't feel it, but somehow knew that it was heavier than a loaf of bread. Even though this girl had surely killed him, he still found her very attractive. It was sad that he would never get to have sex with her again. He desperately wanted to ask for a final ride, but he didn't have any air in his lungs left to speak with.
“We were going to have a happy ending, Ray. I would have done anything to make you happy, but you just couldn't let me. You were the only thing I wanted. WHY COULDN'T YOU BE HAPPY WITH WHAT WE HAD?!”
She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head forward, forcing him to look at the thing in his lap. It was a head. A head with puckered and oozing skin from where she sawed it off at the neck. Red hair. Pale skin and freckles. Lifeless green eyes stared back at him. The last time he saw those eyes they were staring down at him in ecstasy as he made love to his personal trainer, a married woman named Cindy. She had a kid and led the youth group at some church in Carson City. Now she was just a head in his lap.
He tried to think of something clever to say when he could breathe, but nothing came to him. Another girl he would never have sex with again, the day kept getting worse.
“I want you to know your selfishness has cost three people their lives today. Your whore is dead, you'll be dead soon, and now I have to kill Brittany. Selfish asshole.”
Something about that didn't make sense to Ray, but he guessed it didn't matter anymore.
He tried to imagine what would happen when Cindy's husband found them together and quickly realized that didn't matter either. He wouldn't be around for the guy to kill him. He'd worried about it for months, since the first time he took Cindy to a hotel. Now, he found something cathartic in knowing that her husband would never have a chance at revenge.
He fought through another ragged, boiling breath and looked back up to Brittany. Her clothes were clean, but her hands were stained red and she had rust-colored gunk under her fingernails.
“Sorry,” he tried to say, but it came out as a wet gurgle of bloody spit as the bubble burst from his lips. He no longer felt the pain, and the rest of the world faded right along with it.
“I love you, Ray,” Brittany said as she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. He imagined they were warm, but he couldn't be sure.
Chapter 1: Looking Up
I have a secretary.
I don't mean just some girl, sitting around and chewing gum and asking people if they'd like to leave a message. Nope, Kara is a college grad who majored in business. She's great with numbers, knows how to keep receipts and file taxes, and has already started building me a stock portfolio. She speaks Spanish and Japanese fluently and sent out Christmas cards to my entire client list last year.
Plus, she's a 26-year-old goddess with a Pacific Island tan, who wears yoga pants to work twice a week.
“Mr. English, your two o'clock is here,” came Kara's voice over my new office phone system.
I pressed the blinking button, “Thank you, Kara. I'll be right out.”
Yup, she's smarter than I am and prettier than she has a right to be, and now she works for yours truly. It's a beautiful thing.
And Kara is only one out of a hundred things that's gotten better since a cannibal tried to take a bite out of my ass.
That bit of trauma got me all ov
er the news—TV, newspapers, radio talk shows, and I even did an interview in my favorite adult magazine. Apparently, saving a teenage girl from her lunatic high school teacher, who wants nothing more than to fry her up and eat her with a nice glass of Merlot, makes you a hero. It's been like living in the best wet dream ever.
My drinks usually get paid for by someone else, and I haven't paid a cover charge at a strip club in months. Business is booming. I've got new clients all the time, and they are all too happy to give me their money so I can tell them whether or not they have a cheating spouse. Hell, I'm making so much money, I got a new office downtown and a secretary to help me handle all the incoming clients.
Shit. Assistant. I keep forgetting that. She's not a secretary, she's an assistant. Oh well, I'll get it, eventually.
That's right, no more strip mall for the Gavin English Agency. I'm in a business suite now. If I need to make a quick withdrawal, I can hit the bank downstairs, and then grab a sugary coffee at the executive coffee place on my way out. Not that I ever would, that sugary shit'll kill ya.
I snuffed my cigarette out in the new marble ashtray on my desk and shot a puff of air freshener for the customer's sake. You never know who might get offended by smoke. Whiny assholes.
After a quick look in the mirror by the door, I walked out of the office to greet my two o'clock. One glance and I knew why he was there. He was middle-aged, with generous looks that were only starting to lose out to the paunch hanging over his belt. He might have been a high school quarterback, twenty years ago.
He hopped up from one of my new, cushy, lounge chairs, “Mr. English, thank you for seeing me. I've seen you on TV a few times and I know that if anyone can help me, it's you.”
This isn't news. Nearly everyone that walks through the door saw me on TV or read an interview I did “somewhere.”
I flashed my winning-est smile and stepped forward to shake the man's hand, “Of course...” over his shoulder, Kara mouths the name to me, “...Steven. That's what we're here for. I just hope I can help. Why don't we head into my office and you can tell me what's going on? Would you like a drink, hard or soft?”
He walked through the door as I discreetly wiped his sweat from my palm, “Uh, sure. I'll have whatever you're having.”
“Would you pour us a couple of drinks?” I asked Kara with a wink. I'm pretty sure she's not succumbing to my charms yet, but I figure as long as I keep my hands off—without an invitation, and don't make sex jokes around her, a little wink or secret smile now and then is harmless.
“Sure thing, Mr. English.” She smiled back, looking up from her desktop monitor.
I shut the door behind me and walked around the desk to my seat. Steven was already sitting across from me, looking around the room, blankly scanning each picture on the wall, every book lining the shelves. I haven't read half of them yet, but I think it adds to my new professional persona.
“So, what's going on, Steven? How can I help?”
“I think my wife's been cheating on me with someone she works with.”
Bingo.
Steven blahs his way through the whole story, but it breaks down simple enough. High school sweethearts. Steven had been the big man on campus, or the big man's best friend, and some naïve girl fell in love with him while he kept on secretly screwing his way through a pile full of cheerleaders. Fast forward fifteen or twenty years and the girl is still good looking, but Steven is getting fat and thinks he still gets to treat her like he's the top dog. So, she finds herself a “nice guy,” or maybe just someone with abs that she can draw lines on with her tongue.
So now the top dog is paying attention. Blah. Blah. Blah.
“You should have seen our wedding, she looked amazing.”
Steven keeps talking, I nod and smile where appropriate, but my mind is elsewhere. At some point, Kara brings in a couple tumblers with two ice cubes and a finger full of whiskey each. Steven stares at her ass as she walks out of the office. I do too.
From the gut and the stubble all over his round chin, I already guessed that Steven was a beer guy, but the tears in his eyes after his first drink of golden heaven confirmed it. At least he had the courtesy to keep it in, unlike another putz I had in the office two weeks back. That was a mess the cleaning lady wanted to charge extra for.
After he recovers, Steven jumps back into the story and I nurse my drink, nodding occasionally to look like I'm paying attention.
I think one of my favorite parts to this new, fabulous, life of mine is my new relationship with the Police Department. Whenever they have a victim, or the family of a victim who asks them to get my help on a case, they have to do it. This means I get to be smug, while my old boss, Captain Meadows, writes me checks for my time and trouble.
It's a win-win. For me, at least.
“I think it's happening when I work late on Thursday nights,” Steven's voice breaks through. “She always smells like perfume and makes a nice dinner before I get home. It's probably cuz she's feeling guilty.”
“Right.” I think there's someone feeling guilty, but it's not the woman that's shooting for a date night with her husband. Most likely, Steven has been feeling bad about his Thursday night “late work” sessions with his secretary, and is hoping he can push the blame off on the Missus. “Well, Steven, I think I've got everything I need. If you pop out and speak with Kara, she'll give you all the specifics.”
“Oh. Ok, great. Thanks, Mr. English.” Steven stood up and reached across the desk.
“Don't mention it,” I said as I shook his hand again. More sweat. Jesus, I'm gonna need a shower after this guy leaves. With my schedule, it would be several weeks before I got to his case, but as long as the money was green, I didn't have a problem watching his wife make dinner for him.
Or, he could be right. Who the hell knows?
As he exited the office, I buzzed Kara, “Tell me when line three calls, please Kara.”
“Line three?” she buzzed back. “For something so simple?”
“That's right, line three.”
“Of course, Mr. English.”
It was a code. Kara would get all of Steven's info: address, wife's license plate numbers, etc... and then she would tell him our rate for one night of work. For Mr. Happy in there, three hundred bucks would cover a roll of film and some light tailing. If the Missus actually went anywhere.
I know it might seem like a high price. And for most of my customers—the ones that don't make me feel dirty just from talking to them, I'd do the job for a third of that. Charging more to people like Steven, though, makes it easier for me to take on clients that might not be able to afford the help they really need.
Besides, he can always say no, go home and fess up to his slimy ways, try to make things work, and give up his cheating. No one's forcing him to snoop on his wife.
I gave Steven a few minutes to balk and stammer and flirt with Kara while I finished my drink. As I did, I stared at the other, half-drunk glass of whiskey on my desk. What a waste.
Once he left, I walked out of the office and dumped his left-overs into the bathroom sink.
“Did he accept the fee?” I asked Kara, still sitting behind her computer screen.
“Yep. Why so much?”
I smiled as Kara looked my way. Damn, it still surprised me sometimes how cute she was. “I charge extra for guys who stare my assistant's ass.”
She laughed, “Yeah, he was obvious. Not as obvious as you, but still.”
“Oh, come on! I'm subtle as hell. I only let you believe I'm flirting with you, because I don't want you to feel bad for being in love with your boss.”
She chuckled and threw me a smile. “You see right through me, Gavin. You don’t have any more appointments today, and your answering service picks up in about half an hour. Do you mind if I take off a little early? I need to watch my nephew tonight.”
“No problem. Want some company while you babysit?”
The computer chirped as it shut off and Kara stood up from he
r desk. Throwing her small, black purse over her shoulder, she replied, “Oh, I'm sure you and your gaggle of strippers would get bored. It's hard to take your clothes off to the music of Elmo.”
Ouch. “I'll have you know that there is no gaggle of strippers in my life. It's more of a cluster.”
Chapter 2: The New Girl and the Bulldog
Brittany is dead now, thought the young lady as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Outside, she could hear the convenience store clerks and customers chatting and exchanging money—more boring life, in Technicolor.
Ever since she left her first life behind, almost a decade ago, she loved truck stops. It was all so anonymous, everything could be new and different once you walked out those doors and found your way onto the highway. Especially you. You could change everything about yourself, by leaving on any new road.
And she could always find a new road.
Her scalp went from tingling to burning, a clear sign it was time to wash out the bleach. She walked back into the tiny, stand-up shower and let the luke-warm water do its work. Dingy, white bubbles drizzled from her hair and over her breasts, stomach, and legs for several minutes, until all the leftover remnants of Brittany washed away.
With the creek and sputter that you only get at a truck stop shower, she turned off the faucet and stepped back into the cool air of the bathroom. The water wasn't warm enough to fog up the mirrors, so she caught her full reflection without having to wait.
Blonde looked good. It made her lightly tanned skin look several shades darker, and her new, green contacts really stood out. Brittany was long gone now, with her boring life and her boring, cheating boyfriend and her hatred... and all the blood. This new start would be better, cleaner, more exciting.
